


Consort

by Davechicken



Series: The Emperor and his Knight [10]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6707638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poe starts acting a little strangely, and Kylo is worried. He needn't be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poetdameron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetdameron/gifts), [Themes_of_November](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themes_of_November/gifts).



Kylo long since got used to the title of Emperor’s Consort. It wasn’t even official, it was just the term he heard the most. Those individuals who thought _less_ favourable things did not tend to last a long time in Imperial service, after all. Consort. It was a polite, courtly term. It was the kind of term the Republic would have never used, but it suited him just fine.

In private, after all, he was something else. No… other things. All of them, simultaneously. Overlapping and tripping one after the other, a continuum and a mesh and a tapestry in one: Consort. Knight. Enforcer. Right Hand. Saber. Lover. Slave. Pet.

Maybe slave is too strong a word. Pet, most assuredly. Kylo knows he belongs _to_ as well as **with** , and the dual connection just makes him happier still. Poe’s ownership may be harsh at times, but it’s only ever been harsh for Kylo’s own sake. He feels love in every strike, and his Emperor never raises a hand in anger. Kylo might approach in _his_ own anger, but he does so knowing that his rage (not at Poe) will be met by a cold, calm surety. A wall for him to scream against, a set of arms to hold him and wrestle him back to the peace he only finds in his Master’s embrace. 

He is Poe’s, and that’s all he needs. His Master enjoys controlling him, giving him commands and structure, but he enjoys it because Kylo does, too. From their first kisses, they’ve made and re-made those promises to one another: _only what we both desire_. Which means that Kylo knows he’s wanted, because Poe would only ever do what Poe was prepared to do, and the same is true for himself. (And, on the rare occasions where wires have crossed, tempers have frayed, or heads have butted and the situation seemed untenable… either Kylo’s abject rejection, or Poe’s commanding tone of _no_ had stopped things getting too far. A few moments of growling boundaries back, then loving arms held open until both of them were prepared to discuss the problem, or the matter dropped as ‘not right’ and never touched on again. Kylo _knows_ that boundary is there, so he feels free to explore, sure that if he goes too close to an edge that he won’t transgress for long.)

Who they are is who they are, and even if no one else understands, Kylo doesn’t need them to. He found his acceptance, and he found it in golden, strong, loving arms.

***

Emperor Dameron is rarely unsure of himself around Kylo. He’s unsure of things, of course. He has his doubts and his confusions, and those are usually relating to policy. He asks Kylo’s opinion at those times, because Kylo has only given up his heart and mind and body. Kylo surrenders control of _himself_ , but that’s a private arrangement, and it doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of making decisions that relate to others. 

On the contrary, his decision making has been a lot clearer since their relationship deepened. He’s felt more even-headed, and when he’s been unsure of something he’s always been able to run it through with Poe.

So when Poe starts getting fidgety one day, Kylo notices. He notices, because it’s not really happened in so long that now it’s more obvious. He tries to offer a sounding board, but Poe keeps insisting nothing is wrong. It makes him feel on edge, and he is _tempted_ to sneak into his mind to reassure himself. It has to be something big for Poe not to talk to him about it, but he would never dream of going deeper than surface emotions without Poe’s consent. The waves of unease are not - they aren’t painfully uncomfortable, and there’s no anger, no disgust, so Kylo respects the boundary and decides Poe will tell him when Poe is ready.

Waiting is _not_ his strongest suit.

A little voice - cruel, nasty, old - tries to tell him that it means Poe no longer loves him, or is tired of him, or wants to end things… but he stomps down as hard as he can on it. Poe’s acting strange, but he’s still radiating love. A little nerves in his Master is unsettling, but Poe’s earned his moments of insecurity by now, right? Kylo makes a promise to himself to try to help, even if it’s just by not demanding the firm hand until Poe feels better.

He needn’t worry.

That evening, their meal is even more lavish than usual, more rich and thoughtful. Even as Emperor and Consort, they don’t eat to excess, though. It’s good food, reasonable portions, and no real wastage. Opulence for the sake of opulence is ridiculous: no one will look at their dinner table and fail to respect them for serving portions of edible size.

There’s still no real waste, but Poe’s taken the care to get everything perfect. There’s bread and oils to begin, then Kylo’s favourite stew (the one Shara used to make when he visited), then a rich, dark chocolate cake with generously laced whiskey icecream. Candles (not unheard of, but not every day) glitter over the table, and put Kylo’s mind at ease about the sense of not-right coming from Poe. 

There’s no anniversary of something that could upset him. There’s no real news of insurrection. No deaths that might jar him, and Kylo _knows_ he’s done nothing that might upset him. This meal is proof that Poe doesn’t feel bored of, or annoyed by him, so… whatever it is…

…starts… to come off Poe in waves. His stolid, sure Emperor trembles just slightly, and Kylo blinks in surprise when Poe downs the rest of his glass and stands. Surging affection and terror in two (more like how Kylo used to feel) batters his head from his lover, and then the Emperor, the ruler of the galaxy…

…kneels by his side. Kylo’s eyes go wide.

“My Knight. My pet. My beloved. My Kylo.”  


Kylo doesn’t know what he’s… what he’s looking at. Or, he does. The leader of everyone, the most important man in existence - and _even more important in his life_ \- is kneeling. Hands fumble under his cloak, and out comes a small box that he opens.

“Poe…”  


“You are the love of my life, Kylo. You are the only reason for anything I do. Your happiness matters more to me than any title, any command, any planet, any war. Kylo… I love you with all I am. I would like the galaxy to see you by my side, as my heart, as my equal.”  


His hands are over his mouth, and tears hit his fingers. Hot, wet tears. “Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes. Yes! Yes!”

Kylo grabs Poe’s collar and pulls him up. The ring doesn’t even go on his hand to begin with, their kisses messy and loving and intent. He can’t believe Poe was nervous over this, of course he would say yes! Of course he would. He always would. 

It isn’t even the thought of being the legal spouse of his beloved, or the prestige or power. None of that matters, it’s the - it’s the _weight_ of such a proclamation. Even if only five people heard it, the power is in the act and not the audience. In the emotion, and not the perception. 

“Of course,” he whispers, as Poe slides the ring onto his finger. “Of course I will. I love you.”  


Poe’s crying, too, and they end up cuddling on the couch for hours after. Kylo keeps staring at the ring, and Poe keeps kissing his neck, and Kylo can’t believe how lucky he is.

The _galaxy_ will witness what love can do, what love can win two hearts.

 **Everything**.

***

The wedding is high ceremony. It has to be. Poe declares it a day of galactic celebration, and commands all tools downed. All tools. Kylo is actually pleased by that, because even people who don’t know him will feel grateful for the all-wages-paid vacation, even if it’s just one day. 

Or he hopes they will.

Poe wears bright, vibrant, ruddy colours and a full and sheer cloak. It’s a variant of his usual Imperial garb, but dialled up to eleven. The collar swoops low, giving a hint of collarbones, and twisted lanyards fall across each shoulder, keeping the cloak in place. Tall boots, and delicate gloves. 

Kylo spent so long trying to decide that Poe asked if he’d like it to be picked out for him. Relieved, he’d agreed, and that was how he came to find Poe’s newest surprise. His boots are soft, supple leather, the pants above much like his normal ones. Soft gloves. The tunic is a rich, Imperial red - like wine spilt over dark fabric - and where Poe’s clothing is accented with golden metals, his has silvers. His cloak fixes much like his own, and they echo and compliment the other - like two equals - not a Ruler and Ruled. Force, and Might. 

The surprise is more the next thing: Poe’s left a silver half-circlet, to match the one Kylo had made for him. It’s intricately woven strands like a living stretch from a vine, and it means he expects Kylo to attend unmasked.

Which - if he’d thought about it - makes some sense. Poe is marrying _him_ , not his mask. But as they intend to holo-cast the ceremony… the world will see _him_. See **him**. He’s been behind his mask in public for so long… even having periods on their flagship where he isn’t covered have been unsettling for him.

When Poe walks in, he looks dubious.

“…really?” he asks, turning the wreath around in his hands.  


“Your battle mask is for battles. As my husband, you will rule by my side. They can fear you when they have reason to, but they should _respect_ you, as much as they do me.”  


Kylo tosses the wreath back onto the clothes, then grabs his beloved’s face and kisses him deeply all over again.

He doesn’t know how he got this lucky, he truly doesn’t.

***

The ceremony turns out to be a problem, because Kylo actually - damnit - cries. Not a lot, but enough. They exchange their vows and he has to choke a little, and Poe looks as overwrought, too. Maybe it will humanise them, and frankly… he’s been hearing nicer things since their engagement was announced. There’s even commemorative memorabilia, which is downright weird.

People get invested in their love affair. People are _happy for him_.

But the ceremony is the worst, because he has to wipe his tears away with his sleeve, and because he can’t stop feeling utterly _overjoyed_ with it all. There’s cheering, clapping, thrown things and fireworks. Food. So much food. 

It all goes by in such a blur that he doesn’t even have time to feel painful nostalgia for the times as a ch– no. No. No bad memories. Only good.

The party even continues after they leave, and no one seems to be upset by that. Kylo knows it’s been hard for Poe to organise for them to have their brief honeymoon, but they’re not going anywhere out of comm reach. It’s just that they’ve agreed he’ll check the comm unit three times a day, and that anything so urgent it can’t wait for his return will - at least - wait a few hours.

It’s a compromise Kylo is willing to accept.

They make their excuses, and go off to the shuttle Poe’s claimed as his private bird. He still flies himself, though not as often as he’d like to. Kylo wonders if they keep it decked out for the two of them if maybe Poe will go on jaunts more often. Comm open. Then he can still fly and run things, too.

After. When they get back. He’ll suggest it then.

***

Money is no object. Influence is no object. They have stayed in the most prestigious and opulent of hotels. They’ve been wined, dined, reclined in high-rise Coruscanti finery, sat in little, prestigious bistros with _gastonomical maestros_ at the helm, slept in bedding that was worth more than some citizens’ annual salaries… so it’s not that they choose to use for their celebration.

Why? It wouldn’t be special.

No. 

Poe flies the ship out to the back end of beyond. Off to a planet that’s probably closer to uninhabitable than it is to paradise. The weather is hot and sultry, the air a little on the thick side. They have to find somewhere like this for it to be pristine and safe. Even with a national holiday to celebrate, and with the stability their rule has brought… there are always dissidents. Always voices of protest. Always… risks.

So here. Here, under the too-close sun. The sky is a hazy, dusky pink colour, the trees tall and proud, the world alive with chirping birds and bleeping bugs. 

Here they can be free, if only for a little while.

The world has seen his face again, and Kylo… doesn’t care.

Free.

***

The first time they make love as a married couple, Poe barely undresses. It’s a tangled mess with Kylo on his back on the cloak, and silken-gloved thumbs pressing into his throat. Kylo bends one leg up and over Poe’s shoulder as he’s taken as hard as Poe can, and just before he’s ready to come, his Emperor orders him not to and pulls out.

Frustrated, Kylo begs. His hole feels empty and clutches at air, and his balls are fat and pendulous beneath his dick. They beg for release, and he’s kissed instead. Kissed and fingers stroke his hair and tell him he’s beautiful.

The kisses go on, fingers tracing seams and unfamiliar adornments. Kylo’s cock screams for attention, but Poe insists on the softer touches. Fingernails scrape over taut nubs, and he’s a sobbing wreck. Over and over until he’s desperate to come, desperate to be fucked, but so far out of his head that he can no longer ask for it.

His knees are bent back, and he’s taken so hard he feels the slapping all the way through and he comes all over both their wedding gear. Poe curls up on top of him, still joined, and Kylo smiles.

*** 

The second time is as soon as Poe can get it up again. After drifting pleasantly for a while, fingers in hair, kisses, broken conversation that sounds like music carried on the wind: few, far between, melodic… there’s a slow stiffening. Poe doesn’t make a big deal of it, and they continue to kiss and hold and stroke.

It feels like hours as they do that, and Kylo really has no clue how long Poe rocks their bodies together. He just knows his thighs shake with express bliss, and the climax he’s milked for makes him promise anything all over, and he really does slip into unconsciousness after that round.

***

Poe really wants to get his time’s worth out of their little honeymoon, Kylo is amused to find out. And even though they’re always all over one another at home, his ardour is no less for being here. If anything, the extra time means he gets more inventive. 

Kylo’s licked, sucked, nibbled, bitten and worshipped every last place on his lover’s skin. It’s only thanks to the suncream that he’s not gone interesting colours from all the _al fresco_ fucking. His ass is a constant source of delighted throbbing, and the times between their sessions are places for soft conversation, food, more confessions of love and then usually a growled plan for what will happen next. Kylo _loves_ it. He loves being so wanted, so adored. He blossoms under the attention, and it doesn’t matter which of them orgasms the most, or the longest. It’s one long, continuous session in his mind, and he’s so far under that it’s untrue. 

No need to stay in control, not here. Not when Poe can fist a hand through his hair and force his naked husband down to swallow his cock as dessert again. Not when Poe can finger his hole wider as they talk about their future together. Not when Poe fucks him so full of his come that Kylo is sure it’s dripping down his thighs at any given moment. His skin burns with lust, all worries screwed right out of his head. 

Chains. Fingers. Teeth. Nails. Choking, pulling, tugging, biting. It’s one long, endless love-making session. Even those times when Poe had been his harshest with Kylo pale in comparison to the heady, sweaty love-nest they’re indulging in. Even the twisted little fantasies he’d confessed in the dark (when Poe couldn’t see his eyes) about being strapped down and interrogated _himself_. Of being ‘broken’ open and owned… nothing compares to the place his head is in, now.

Pink and red marks write Poe’s name all over him. Healing bruises from his lips, bitten promises that whisper their truth when he moves. A cock that curls up at the thought of more, and an ass that wants to take every last thrust it can. He’s a slut, but only for Poe. For Poe, he’d bend over and offer his ass as soon as he looked at him. He wanders in a daze into the cool water, not registering the shock against his heated skin. The _world_ is alive, and so is Kylo.

He feels the gaze fall upon him as he walks through the pool of their oasis. The sun laughs over his dark hair and tanning shoulders, but the weight of Poe’s attention is like the light from a thousand suns. Water licks its way up from ankles to waistline, and seals around his stomach like a cold and happy mouth. The tension of above and below is delicious, like the two sides of the Force. Light, Dark. The stinging numbness and the blazing wanting. He splashes flickers of the depths over his bitten-bruised skin, and then bends at the knees and vanishes under the surface.

Under, under, under. Dark and cold and lovely. Like a spacewalk, like the ice in the bottom of your glass. A shock to the system and he hears Poe calling him like the words are etched in the marrow, deep in his bones. 

He doesn’t resist, standing and feeling his hair slink flat to his neck.

Poe is waiting for him. His beloved. His Emperor. His Master. His **husband**.

Kylo smiles and he walks back from the water. Poe needs to write his ownership with tongue and touch all over, the water erasing the surface claim and wiping his slate clean.

But only the surface. Their bond goes deeper than any lick or darkened skin. Written in the very laws of the galaxy, now. 

_Kylo belongs to - no - **with** \- Poe. _And now there’s not a soul alive who doesn’t know it.


End file.
